


Dressing Gown Blues

by oddishly



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life would be a whole lot easier, Jon thinks, if Brendon were more like a dressing gown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressing Gown Blues

Apparently Ryan's not quite over his purple stage.

Jon stares down at him. Ryan's curled up in his bunk, face buried in his pillow and hands wrapped tight in the very fluffy, very lavender dressing gown that's draped over the top of him.

Jon tries his very hardest not to laugh. Really, he does. It's just a bit – yeah. Lavender. And fluffy. And – Ryan's _snuffling._

Jon supposes it's comfortable. If Ryan wants to get comfort from a – a lavender dressing gown, then cool. It's a whole lot more sensible than getting it from – say – Brendon.

Maybe Jon should get a dressing gown.

A dressing gown wouldn't hang itself from Jon's neck and press its nose into his hair. A dressing gown wouldn't smile like Jon's made its fucking week if he made it a cup of hot chocolate in the evening. A dressing gown wouldn't blow kisses across the coffee table or the practice room or the stage.

Life would be a whole lot easier, Jon thinks, if Brendon were more like a dressing gown.

~

It's entirely possible that Ryan and Spencer keep each other around because there's no-one else the other likes to argue with so much.

Jon's sitting with Brendon in the back lounge, squashed into a sleepy mish-mash on the couch with their heads pressed together. They're listening to Spencer bitch at Ryan for leaving the milk out _again_, for fuck's sake, and Jon's pretty sure it's actually Brendon that doesn't replace the milk after he's done with it, but Ryan's doing a good job of defending himself. It would only complicate things if Jon said anything, and they probably wouldn't hear him from the kitchen, anyway.

Jon sure isn't going anywhere.

Brendon shifts a little against his chest and Jon lowers his eyes to look at his face. Brendon's eyes are shut and his breathing steady, but Jon spends an embarrassing amount of time watching Brendon sleep. This isn't Brendon asleep.

Ryan's voice floats through from the kitchen – '... then maybe you should fucking _buy _some from time to time instead of relying on me to get it; _god, _Spence,' – before the door slams, blocking off the rest of their argument.

Brendon snickers.

Jon tightens his fingers on Brendon's elbow. 'It was you, wasn't it?' he whispers in Brendon's ear and Brendon blinks. Jon raises his eyebrows at him.

Brendon's eyes go huge and guilty. Jon squashes the mortifying jolt of protectiveness that runs through him at the sight and knocks his shoulder against Brendon's.

'It's Ryan's own fault for letting Spencer get into it,' Brendon says. 'You think he'd know by now how to win an argument with Spencer. Guess there's some things fifteen years don't teach you.'

'No hope for the rest of us, then,' Jon replies ruefully, and Brendon smiles.

He drops his head back onto Jon's shoulder and yawns. 'Wish they'd hurry up,' he says. 'Want coffee.'

Jon hums in agreement and leans his head against Brendon's. He's trying not to be too obvious with smelling Brendon's hair, because that's maybe a bit weird, when Brendon jerks his head up to – well. Jon doesn't know what, but it ends with Brendon's nose pressed to his own, tip to tip.

They both freeze.

After a moment, Jon's mind clears. _I should say something about morning breath, _ he thinks, and doesn't. He waits for Brendon to pull away.

Brendon doesn't move. His breath is playing warm across Jon's jaw, eyes out of focus but too bright for the time of day, and his fingers are walking slowly up Jon's forearms.

Jon's breath is coming too shallow. _Too much_, he catches himself thinking, and almost laughs because what the fuck, they're not doing anything.

Jon hesitates, then edges the tip of his nose over Brendon's. It's – it's nothing, he's barely moving – barely _breathing _– but Brendon's breath hitches and his fingers are suddenly still and painfully tight on Jon's arms. Their eyes stay locked.

The door slams.

Jon blinks, and Brendon jerks away from him.

Ryan stalks through the room without acknowledging them, muttering bitterly under his breath. Jon works at getting his breathing under control, heart beating uncomfortably fast, and tries not to think about the look he caught on Brendon's face.

He can't quite look at Brendon. That's okay; he's pretty sure Brendon's not looking at him, either.

_Oh god_, Jon finds himself thinking, _is this it? We're going to stay here on the couch for the rest of tour not saying anything? _

Jon forces himself to look sideways. Brendon's perched on the edge of the couch, his lip caught between his teeth and his forehead creased, staring at the floor.

'Brendon ...' Jon hears himself say, and reaches out a hand to brush his fingers along Brendon's arm. Brendon flinches.

Jon whips his hand back. _ What? _

Brendon darts his eyes up to meet Jon's, and Jon can't quite wipe the hurt off his face in time. 'Sorry,' Brendon says, sounding bewildered, 'Sorry, I – '.

Jon looks at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Brendon's hand flutters from his knee towards Jon's shoulder, hovering above it for a second before dropping back to his lap. Jon swallows.

The cushions shift as Brendon gets to his feet. Jon looks up at him to see Brendon looking down at him with a conflicted expression. He looks away when Jon tries to meet his gaze.

'I'm just – ' Brendon says awkwardly, waving a hand towards the bunks, and Jon nods briefly.

'Right,' he says. 'Sure.'

'Yeah,' Brendon replies. He hesitates before walking stiltedly away from the couch, and Jon can't – Jon can't just leave it like this. 'Brendon.'

'Yeah?'

Jon chews on his lip then clambers over the back of the couch and catches up to Brendon by the door. Brendon's watching him uncertainly.

'Nothing,' Jon says, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Brendon in a brief, tight hug. He doesn't give Brendon time to respond but draws back and smiles lightly at him. 'Okay?'

Brendon eyes him for a moment before stepping forwards to fold himself into Jon's arms again. Jon lets out his breath.

'Okay,' Brendon says, and presses a quick kiss to Jon's cheek.

Jon shuts his eyes.

Okay.

~

Brendon pretends nothing happened, and Jon doesn't think about it.

He doesn't imagine a world where Ryan and Spencer stay locked in the kitchen for hours and Brendon lets him draw in closer; doesn't imagine licking the smudge of toothpaste from the corner of Brendon's mouth; doesn't imagine the press of Brendon's lips against his own.

He doesn't jerk off to the thought of Brendon digging his fingernails into Jon's arm; doesn't bite his lip to the careful tilt of Brendon's head; doesn't hiss through his teeth at whatever it was Jon had thought was sparking out of Brendon's eyes.

Most of all, he doesn't wonder if it will ever happen again.

But if he does think about it – just once, just twice – it doesn't matter.

Nothing's going to happen.

~

The next time Jon comes across the dressing gown, he's sorting through the laundry that Brendon had _sworn_ last night to finish on pain of a Spencer-imposed Guitar Hero ban.

Jon secretly agrees with Brendon that there really isn't any point in separating their clothes when they're only going to fight over each others' T-shirts anyway, but laundry's one of Spencer's Things, so.

Apparently when Brendon had agreed to finish the laundry, he'd heard it as 'finish folding Spencer's socks into Jon's'. Another one of Spencer's Things is that socks are meant to be paired correctly. Accordingly, Brendon likes to mix and match Spencer's socks into everyone elses. 'It keeps them on their toes,' he likes to tell Jon, waving the socks in the air, before collapsing in fits of giggles on Jon's shoulder.

Jon's hunting through the pile for more odd pairs when he knocks an elbow into a pile of his own clothes and sends them flying into a pile of Ryan's. In the midst of the T-shirts and skinny jeans and paisley waistcoats he spies the dressing gown Ryan had been wearing.

Jon snorts and picks it off the floor. It is _very _lavender, with a silky lining and a white, furry hood. And – Jon peers at the breast pocket – it's got rainbows fabriqued into the fluff. Which, okay, Ryan wears girls' jeans and fingerless gloves and ridiculous amounts of purple, but rainbows aren't really his style.

Jon wrinkles his nose and sits back on his heels. He'd have thought it was Brendon's, actually, except that it's the kind of thing Brendon forces them all to admire as soon as he discovers it, so no. And anyway, it had been Ryan wearing it. For all that Ryan doesn't mind sharing someone else's bunk, he's weirdly picky about sharing nightclothes. Chances are pretty slim he'd be okay with falling asleep in someone else's dressing gown. And, you know. Snuffling.

Jon bites his lip on a smile and deposits the robe on what remains of Ryan's pile of clothes.

~

For someone that doesn't actually own a dressing gown, Jon wakes up suspiciously often to find himself wearing one. And when he wakes up for the third morning in a week draped in purple, he decides enough is enough. He needs to have a word with Ryan about it. While Jon admits that he's not, perhaps, the manliest man in the world – and that's not even his fault, c'mon, he'd challenge a _really_ manly man to keep his moustache when he's under a constant barrage of Ryan-Brendon-Spencer cuddles and musicals and unicorn T-shirts – he's always been the manliest one in the _band_. Probably because lavender, for instance, just isn't his thing.

Jon allows himself a couple of minutes of snuggling then swings his legs down from the couch, attempting to shrug off the dressing gown as he does so. He ends up strangled by the cord and tripping over the hood into a maze of half-full coffee cups and empty CD cases and magazines on the floor, and really, Jon thinks bemusedly as he rights himself, they didn't have to _dress_ him in it.

Whoever 'they' was. Jon suspects Brendon, playing mom when Jon fell asleep during their Disney marathon. Obviously that didn't extend to keeping an eye on Jon through the night, though.

Jon shakes his head a little – could he _be_ any more pathetic? – and pads through to the bunks. Neither of the two upper beds has been slept in.

Jon steels himself against seeing Ryan curled tight into Brendon, fingers entwined and faces pressed into each other's necks, and maybe he's a bit more abrupt than usual when he jerks the curtain open.

'Ryan!' he hisses.

The lump beneath the sheets doesn't move.

'Ryan!'

Nothing.

Jon bites his lip. God, it was just – last night, he'd thought, he'd _hoped_ Brendon would stay with him on the couch until morning.

Wishful fucking thinking.

Brendon wasn't complaining last night, though, squashed between Jon and the arm of the couch, not quite leaning against him but looking like he might have done if he'd forgotten that things were still a bit, you know, awkward. And Jon, well.

Jon wasn't complaining, either.

Jon's gloomily contemplating returning to the lounge – or possibly Chicago, that sounds like a good idea, too – when something shifts under the bedclothes. Jon's just got time to school his expression into something other than _it's been fun, can I suggest Tom for your new bassist? _ when the scrabbling turns into one – _one _– rumpled-looking head, face-down in the pillow.

'Ngggghhhhhhhhhhh.'

Right. Dressing gown. 'Uh, Ryan?'

'Ngghh.'

'Uh. You do know that this isn't actually _my_ dressing gown. Right?'

Ryan's face stays buried in the pillow but a hand appears, sticking out comically from the side of the bunk. Jon presses the dressing gown into it gingerly.

'Not that I don't, like, appreciate the thought or whatever, but Ryan, when you leave this lying around for people to dress me up in, you're kind of taking a sledge hammer to my manly reputation. I _like_ my manly reputation.'

The head lifts off the pillow fractionally. Jon thinks it's eying the dressing gown.

'That reputation takes work, Ross. Not everyone can do manly.'

'Sn'mine.' The head flops back down on the pillow.

Jon frowns. 'What?'

'S'not mine. Fugger.' Ryan flaps a hand at Jon. 'M'awake now. Manly? Fugger. Coffee.'

Jon supposes it's only fair.

~

Jon returns with a plate of sticky doughnuts in one hand and a mug of thick black coffee in the other. Some time in the past five minutes, Brendon's climbed in with Ryan. Ryan's fingers are twined in Brendon's hair and both of them are snoring.

Jon spends a wistful moment imagining tipping the coffee over the pair of them, then sighs and tosses it back himself.

~

Jon's not actually obsessed with the dressing gown. It's just that it's kind of weird, because it doesn't seem to belong to anyone. It's not Jon's and evidently it's not Ryan's, and judging by Spencer's reaction on seeing Jon wearing it two nights ago – it's comfortable, okay, and come on, it's not like Ryan's never worn a pyjama shirt with jeans – it's not his, either. Brendon's never around to ask, but it's got so many Xs on the tag that it could probably fit three of him inside it and still have room for Jon to squash in somewhere. Snuggly but impractical.

Anyway. It sure as fuck isn't Zack's, so clearly it's anyone's for the taking. Which is what's weird about it. Because Jon keeps on taking it, dumping it in his bunk or whatever, it's just never there when he comes back. He feels pathetic enough already about it without going _looking_ for it.

Stupid thing.

~

'Jon Walker, I am _sick.' _

Jon's coffee hits the ceiling.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and glances down. There's a mouldy heap of comforters on the couch that he didn't really expect to start talking to him.

Either the mould has brought new life and a mournful tone of voice to the comforters, or someone with a suspiciously familiar pair of chocolate eyes has taken up residence in the middle of them.

The eyes blink at him hopefully. Jon feels his own expression go warm and sympathetic. Wordlessly, he holds out what remains of his coffee towards the couch.

The eyes turn disappointed.

'Jon!' Brendon says in a hurt tone. 'Jon Walker, are you joking? Do you really think a cup of coffee – _half a cup of coffee_'s good enough? I'm _sick, _ I'm probably _dying_' – there's a piteous little cough – 'you'll wake up tomorrow and there'll be no more Bden: no more cotton-candy smoothies and no more Disney singalongs and _no more lead singer, Ross.' _

The last is aimed in a louder croak around the couch. Jon twists to look at the back of the lounge and spots Ryan glaring at his iPod with an expression that makes Jon think he might have been fielding dire warnings of _singer down, singer down! _ for a while.

Jon catches his eye and winks. Ryan grimaces.

Brendon's watching him expectantly. Jon hops across the coffee table and flops down next to him. 'All right,' he says. 'Lemme in.'

Brendon beams at him. 'You're my favourite, Jon, you're like my _hero, _' he says approvingly. Jon licks the coffee off the back of his hand with a smile. 'Who needs Ross? He's like a runner bean, a fucking stringy one; _nobody_ wants to cuddle a runner bean.'

There's a pointed silence behind them, and Jon and Brendon grin at each other.

Brendon glances down at the comforters. 'Um ...'

Unwrapping Brendon is a bit like playing a game of Pass the Parcel, Jon decides. As well as the mouldy comforters, Jon has to dig through two downy quilts, an old fleecy sweater of Spencer's, an inexplicable collection of empty pillow cases and what looks like most of Ryan's scarf collection.

Jon does his best to convey _trying life on the wild side_? with his eyebrows and gets a _dude, rockstar_ waggle from Brendon in return. Brendon follows it with a nervous glance at the back of Ryan's head and hisses, 'But keep it down, Jon, Ross speaks fluent Eyebrow.'

Jon grins and peels back the scarves, and –

'B, I haven't washed those pyjamas since the start of tour. _Last_ tour,' and what the fuck is Jon saying? Brendon's _wearing his pyjamas_, why is he complaining?

Brendon's hopeful smile falters and he looks down at his knees. Jon immediately feels guilty. 'I – yeah. Don't worry, I'll – I'll wash them after I'm done with them.'

Jon's covering Brendon's fan duties for the next _month. _

He smiles reassuringly and lifts his arm, saying, 'Don't be stupid, Brendon, I'm going to auction them off in ten years when I've squandered my millions on booze and girls. You've just doubled the asking price.' Behind them, Ryan snorts. Jon ignores him. 'C'mere, you.'

Brendon shuffles into his lap, head snug under Jon's chin and arms unexpectedly tight around his waist, and Jon swallows. He pets Brendon's hair absently, smiling a little at his contented snuffling and ignoring the Tom in his head who's making kissy faces and cooing at him.

Brendon yawns. 'Smell good,' he says drowsily, 'All Christmassy. Christmas and ... coffee. Sugar an' spice an' all things nice.' Jon tries not to feel charmed.

Tom's pretending to swoon and Jon tells him to go the fuck away, _please_, and tightens his arms. He can't help it: he presses a kiss to the top of Brendon's head.

'I'm pretty sure that's what little girls are made of, Brendon,' says a dry voice by Jon's ear. Jon jumps. Ryan's perched on the arm of the couch with a smirk playing around his lips. Jon glares, but Ryan's mouth only stretches wider. Jon coughs and looks back at Brendon. _Uh. _

'Not a little girl,' Brendon's murmuring into his chest. 'He's a teddy bear, aren't you, Jon?'

'Sure,' Jon replies soothingly, and mutters, 'Like a _runner bean_, Ross,' over his shoulder.

'Whatever, dude,' Ryan says easily, and Jon hears _you are so rumbled, Walker. _He decides to worry about it later.

Jon works a hand between Brendon's three hoodies and his pyjama top to rub broad circles over his back. He's pretty sure Ryan's making gagging noises behind him, but god, this is the longest he's spent next to Brendon in _weeks; _ he's going to enjoy it. He drops his gaze to Brendon's head where it's shifted to Jon's lap, running his eyes over his ridiculous hair.

Jon frowns. Brendon doesn't look quite – right. His skin is pale against Jon's jeans and he's grimacing a bit.

Jon watches carefully for signs that Brendon's about to throw up on him, but –

His jaw drops.

'... the _fuck?' _

Brendon's disappeared. The dressing gown's back, though.

Jon blinks down at his knees, then swivels to look at Ryan. Ryan's eyes are the size of plates.

There's a long silence.

From the corner of his mind that isn't trying to rearrange the letters in Brendon's name to fit _fluffy lavender dressing gown_, Jon hears Ryan clear his throat. 'He – okay, _what? _ How did he – _where _did he – Jon. Did you see – ?'

Ryan stops talking. Jon drags his gaze up to Ryan's face. Ryan's eyes keep darting to the cushions. Jon wonders if he's perhaps waiting for Brendon to reappear from behind them and clears his throat. 'He – fuck. Ryan, the, the dressing gown – it's _Brendon.' _

Ryan's cheeks are going green.

'I – '

'He, he was here, he was _right here_ and I was, I don't know, fucking stroking him or whatever, and he got this weird look on his face like he's about to throw up, except instead _he turns into this fucking dressing gown. _' Jon can't look at the – the dressing gown, or whatever, but he can't seem to relax his grip in the collar, either.

'But – '

_ 'I'm telling you, _ Ryan, it's him. It's Brendon.'

Ryan nods blankly. After a second he seems to find his voice again. 'But – why?'

Jon gapes at him.

'I mean. A _dressing gown_ for fuck's sake, why a dressing gown?'

'Because – I don't know, Ryan, because he's too fucking skinny to be any use as a sleeping bag? Because coffee doesn't taste as good when you're a puppy? How should I know why, don't you think the important thing might be how to change him back?'

Ryan doesn't answer but drops his gaze down to Jon's lap with a horrified sort of fascination on his face. Jon stares at him for a moment, then reluctantly does the same.

Brendon's still purple.

Jon can feel something dangerously close to panic building in his head. He's trying to squash it down – no point freaking Ryan out even more – when Ryan speaks again. 'And why lavender? Shouldn't he at least be the same colour as the pyjamas were, or something?'

Apparently Ryan's already given himself up to hysterics. Jon stares at him.

The door clicks behind them. Jon snaps his gaze around. 'Spencer, thank god, someone that might talk some sense to me.' He scoops Brendon off his knees carefully and holds him out.

Spencer takes the dressing gown from him with a bemused expression. He looks expectantly at Jon.

Jon can't quite work out what to say. Seriously, how do you tell someone their lead singer's just – just –

The silence drags out.

Spencer rolls his eyes. He raises Brendon to his nose and sniffs exaggeratedly. 'Mmm, cinnamon.'

Well, fine. Jon nods at Spencer's hands. 'It's Brendon.'

Spencer looks confused. 'What's Brendon?'

'The dressing gown.'

'The what?'

Ryan turns to face them. 'The dressing gown.'

Spencer looks sideways at him, unimpressed. 'This dressing gown, this dressing gown right here – this is Brendon.'

Jon nods. 'Yeah.'

Spencer laughs and tosses Brendon back in Jon's direction.

Jon's mind floods with images of Brendon snapped in two across the back of the couch; Brendon in a neck brace . He leaps up and lunges towards Spencer with Ryan's shout ringing in his ears. He trips as he reaches Spencer, arms outstretched and blankets strewn all around. Jon registers half a second of relief at catching the robe before Brendon blinks back into normal existence.

Jon stumbles and nearly drops him in surprise. He catches himself just in time to slip his arms under Brendon's knees and back and Brendon jerks, his eyes flying open. Jon tightens his grip.

Brendon struggles for a moment before he looks up and meets Jon's gaze. Jon's pulse is deafening in his ears.

A complicated look flashes across Brendon's face then clears, and he smiles tentatively. 'Why, hello there, Jon Walker,' he says quietly. There's a flush high on his cheekbones.

Jon stares at him mutely. Brendon waits then glances sideways, catching sight of Spencer with his mouth hanging open and Ryan turning greener by the second, then back up. He raises an eyebrow, whispering, 'Why is no one speaking?' loudly to Jon, who doesn't reply. Brendon drops that eyebrow and lifts the other. Getting no reaction from Jon, he performs a complicated eyebrow dance.

Jon can feel his lips twitching. Brendon's twitch in answer and they smile at each other for a second until Brendon tries to move again. Jon's arms are still locked around Brendon's body, he realises. He doesn't move.

Brendon struggles a moment longer before giving up. 'Fine,' he says towards the ceiling. 'I'll swoon in Jon's arms for the rest of the tour; the girls'll love it.'

No one says a word. Jon's not sure about Ryan and Spencer, but personally he's having a little bit of trouble focussing on the fact that Brendon's not a dressing gown any more, instead of his position in Jon's arms.

A quick glance at the two of them in the corner suggests he's the only one having that particular problem.

Brendon sighs. 'All right, then. What did I miss?'

~

Jon should have guessed that Brendon would consider an uncontrollable and entirely unpredictable tendency to turn into a dressing gown a gift. Personally, Jon sees it as a terrifying, not to mention inconvenient, curse on the band and Jon's sanity.

Terrifying is in no way an overstatement.

Jon's spent all week hovering protectively around Brendon. Who cares if Jon doesn't actually have the first idea what he's going to do if Brendon _doesn't _turn back one time? He just – feels better for being there.

And besides, Brendon's sick. _Really _sick. He needs looking after.

Which is why Jon's looking for him now.

'Lost him, have you?'

Jon looks up in surprise. Spencer's grinning at him widely from the kitchen. 'Brendon? Yeah.'

'He's on the roof.' Spencer continues to grin at Jon.

'Thanks,' Jon replies bemusedly. 'I'm just going to, uh –' He winds his way through the lounge in the direction of the kitchen.

Spencer coughs as Jon reaches him and Jon stops. '_What, _man?'

Spencer purses his lips exaggeratedly. 'You must be feeling a bit disorientated right now. Without Brendon.'

'Without – oh, whatever, Smith. Yeah, like I've lost a limb. Ten minutes away from him is killing me.'

Spencer nods. 'Well, can I get you anything to cheer you up? Coffee? Take-away? Maybe a head massage? Or I could pay for your own personal masseuse, if you like. And I'll fly in some fresh eucalyptus from – from a mountain in Indonesia; that should help clear your head. ... are you paying attention, Jon? Because I don't think you're doing enough for Brendon.'

Jon raises his eyebrows. 'He's sick, Spence. _Sick.' _

Spencer grins. 'If you say so.'

'I do say so. Or did you not hear him coughing last night?'

'_Hear_ him, yes. Stay up all night rubbing his back, no.'

Jon rolls his eyes, smiling. 'I'm a good friend.'

Spencer smiles back at him. 'Sure. And maybe a bit sick yourself.'

'Right, yeah, sick as a – '

'_Love_ sick,' Spencer grins, waggling his eyebrows.

Jon's stomach turns over. 'Ha fucking ha,' he says, and edges past Spencer into the kitchen. 'Do you want me to sneeze love germs into your coffee?'

Spencer doesn't reply. Jon reaches for four mugs and glances over his shoulder at him.

Spencer's peering at him. 'What?' Jon asks.

Spencer can't seem to decide what expression to settle on. Jon waits then turns back to the counter.

Spencer coughs. 'Do you ...'

He stops. Jon sets the mugs down.

'You _do_,' Spencer says slowly. 'I mean – you are.'

Jon blinks. 'I am what?' he asks carefully without looking at Spencer.

Spencer doesn't say anything.

Jon turns around to face him. 'I am what?'

Spencer shakes his head. 'Nothing,' he says quietly. He smiles at Jon. 'It doesn't matter.'

Jon turns back to the coffee with a snort and ignores his churning stomach.

~

Jon really, truly doesn't care how earnest Ryan is when he apologises, because for fuck's sake. For _fuck's_ sake. He can take coffee spilling across all but one of his photos of the cats. He can take half of the albums on his iPod disappearing off to god knows where in cyberspace. He can take Brendon following him around on his hands around the bus all day because who knows if this is the last time he ever gets to walk on his hands, maybe he's about to turn into a dressing gown again and stay stuck that way _forever _without _ever_ having walked on his hands around the bus, but _for fuck's sake. _

'You can, uh, wear my things instead?' Ryan tries in what Jon supposes is meant to be a pleading tone of voice. 'Every day until we stop somewhere that I can wash it all out?'

Jon stares at him incredulously. 'Your clothes might have fit me when I was twelve, Ryan, but notice I'm actually three times the size of you now. And could you maybe pay attention to what size jeans you're dumping in the machine next time you decide to fill it with cinnamon washing powder?'

Ryan scowls. 'I was _drunk,' _ he tells Jon for the fifth time, and seriously, does he think Jon's going to forgive everything just because Ryan can't hold his fucking liquor? 'Every single piece of clothing I have on this bus reeks of cinnamon,' Jon reminds him.

'I _know, _' Ryan grits out, 'And I've told you I'm sorry, and I'm _trying_ to sort it out for you, and sarcastic fucking commentary isn't helping.'

'Why do you even have cinnamon-smelling washing powder anyway, Ross?' puts in Brendon interestedly from the couch.

'Because I live to torment Jon,' Ryan replies without looking at him, 'And to annoy you when I tell you to fuck off with the irritating questions.'

'Huh,' Brendon says a moment later. 'Awesome.'

Jon closes his eyes briefly then flickers them open to fix his stare on Ryan. 'Look,' he says. 'Ryan. I _get_ that you didn't, in actual fact, mean to wash my clothes in three times as much cinnamon washing powder as it says on the box. But I_ also_ know that I don't want to spend the next week smelling like a spice rack. Okay? No – ' he holds up a hand as Ryan opens his mouth again, ' – don't want to hear it. Just. Just sort out my clothes. _Before_ next Saturday, Ross.'

Jon waits until Ryan nods with a mutinous look on his face then turns back to head through to the kitchen.

Spencer's standing in the doorway with his nose in one of Jon's T-shirts and wearing an expression of mock-ecstasy.

Jon sighs and Spencer lifts his head slightly.

'So good, Jon,' he says to the T-shirt, affecting a country drawl. '_So _good. Kind of like ... ' Spencer stops and lifts his head to face the ceiling, eyes closed. He gives the top one last sniff.

Jon rolls his eyes as Spencer opens his own wide, smiling brightly.

'Like my momma's apple pie, Jon, fresh out of the oven, all thick and crusty – '

'Give that here.' Jon snatches the T-shirt as Spencer doubles up against the doorframe, and spins around to see Ryan's back shaking suspiciously. 'You'd better not be laughing, Ross,' he warns over the top of Spencer's laughter, and watches as Ryan hunches in on himself, apparently trying to hide the shaking.

'I hate you both,' Jon mutters, and strides past Ryan to drop down next to Brendon on the couch. Brendon immediately shifts sideways to bury his giggles in Jon's shoulder. Jon doesn't have the heart to shove him away – maybe pull him closer, whatever.

It's a moot point, anyway, because the giggling only lasts a moment before Jon's covered in the dressing gown again.

Ryan and Spencer fall silent. _Ha, _ Jon thinks, and feels guilty the moment he's finished the thought.

He looks down at Brendon and stifles a sigh. 'Right,' he says pointlessly, 'Now what?' and turns to look back at the other two.

Spencer looks as ill as he did the first time they saw Brendon switch, and he's done it loads now, but Ryan's got the same look on his face that he gets when lyrical epiphanies hit. Jon pulls Brendon off his shoulder and onto his lap, smoothing his palms over the flannel, and gives Ryan a questioning look.

Ryan's still lost in thought. Jon waits impatiently and he's about to hurry him along when Ryan shakes his head. He glances at Jon, lip quirked.

'Sugar and spice and all things nice,' Ryan says, and just like that, Jon gets it.

~

_ 'Cinnamon?' _ Brendon's saying plaintively from the kitchen, 'I turn into a dressing gown because of all the _cinnamon _that's around?'

'Well, kind of,' says Ryan. 'We think it's probably got to do with, like, you being tired and cuddling people and stuff, too, seeing as that's the only time we've seen you... switch, or whatever, but yeah.'

'So just now, that was because of Jon's clothes? When I was hugging him? Because I wasn't tired, but then I was waking up.'

'I guess.' Ryan sounds sulky, even through the monotone. 'Maybe your dressing-gown sense got confused.'

'My – my _dressing-gown sense_? Wait – you mean like my _Spidey_ sense? Oh my god, Ross, I knew there was a reason I kept you, you're calling me _superhuman_?'

'No,' Ryan says, 'I'm calling you a freak, dude. And who makes movies about people turning into dressing gowns?'

There's silence from the kitchen. Jon flips the page in his magazine, then drops it on the couch beside him.

'Fucking cinnamon,' Brendon grumbles at length. 'What the fuck kind of superhero needs _cinnamon _to save the day?'

'Oh, you think you're going to, what, _cuddle_ the world to safety, is that it?' asks Ryan dryly, and Jon holds his breath. Sure enough, a moment later there's a series of splashes and Ryan's shouting 'Brendon, you fucker, this is new!' before Brendon appears in the doorway.

Jon looks up at him. Brendon's clothes are drenched and his hair looks more like a mop than anything else, but he's wearing a highly satisfied expression.

Jon raises his eyebrows.

'Ryan's having fun with your washing,' Brendon says as he makes his way through to the bunks, and Jon grins. 'Suck it up, Ross,' he shouts cheerfully through to the kitchen, and ducks as a soaking wet pair of socks comes flying through the door.

~

Jon doesn't like the look in Spencer's eyes when he says out of the blue one evening, 'Maybe it's got something to do with other people, instead of him.'

Ryan raises an eyebrow at him and Spencer flaps a hand idly towards Jon and Brendon on the couch. 'Brendon's fluffy act. Think about it: he's asleep, or nearly, every time he changes, and he only wakes up when he changes back, so what does he get out of it, really? He doesn't remember any of it. But anyone who's wearing him gets Brendon hanging off them even more than normal, only instead he's purple and made of – dressing gown material.'

'So – what, you mean because someone's got a crush on him?'

Spencer tilts his head ambiguously.

Ryan screws up his nose. 'That's stupid, Spence; if it was crushes that did it he'd be turning lavender every time he walked up on stage. Except I guess he doesn't actually, like, cuddle anyone when we're on stage, but whatever. Half the girls on the planet have got a crush on him. '

Jon can feel his lips quirking, just slightly, and Ryan rolls his eyes at him. 'Shut up, Walker, you can't talk. The majority of the time it's _you_ that's - that's wearing, um, him ...'

Ryan trails off. Jon looks across at him to see something dawn across his face. '_Ohhh.'_

Spencer lets out a triumphant gust of air and lies back, eyes following something in the ceiling. 'Oh,' he agrees sagely.

Ryan's still staring off into space. 'Which means that Jon wants – and _Brendon ...'_

Spencer nods again. 'Uh huh.'

'Do you think Brendon knows?'

Spencer shrugs and replies, 'Don't think it matters. Maybe.'

Ryan nods slowly, then grins unexpectedly at Spencer. 'This is _brilliant.'_

Jon looks between them. 'Because Jon wants what?'

Ryan and Spencer jump - fuckers, he's been here the whole time - then smirk at each other. As one, they turn and leer at Jon. He shifts in his seat. 'What?'

Spencer coughs pointedly and runs his gaze down Jon's body to his lap where Brendon's neatly folded. Jon looks down and realises he's actually kind of hugging Brendon to his stomach, hands buried in the sleeves and cord wrapped tight around his wrist. He untangles himself hurriedly and opens his mouth to say – something.

Before he manages to come up with anything, Spencer and Ryan grin widely at each other. 'Spencer,' Ryan says, 'Spence, I think _someone's _got a bit more of a thing for Brendon than they've been letting on.'

Spencer smirks. 'Right,' he says. 'A _lot_ more of a thing.'

Jon can feel himself blushing. Ryan and Spencer sigh loudly.

'Young love,' Ryan says in a wistful tone. 'Fucking adorable,' Spencer agrees, and they beam at Jon.

Jon's cheeks are burning. 'Fuckers,' he mutters. 'Do not.' He absolutely does not cross his fingers as he says it.

'Oh?' Spencer asks innocently, 'You mean you don't like the idea of being the pyjamas to Brendon's dressing gown?'

'Oh my god, shut up,' Jon groans over Ryan's cackling, because how is this fair? How is this in any way fair, he's the oldest and the best at making coffee and everyone's best friend, and – and oh, great, Brendon's awake and blinking up at him with a bewildered expression.

'Hey,' Jon says wildly, and is there even the slightest possibility Brendon didn't hear Spencer?

'Hey,' Brendon replies, then mouths, 'Pyjamas?'

Jon lifts his head to shoot daggers at Spencer. Spencer winces apologetically. Next to him, Ryan's sniggering, and Jon transfers his glare to him.

Ryan bites down on his lip. Jon hates his band.

He sighs and looks back down uncertainly to see Brendon watching him with a calculating look, something tense in the way he's curled on Jon's knees. Jon's heart sinks lower.

After a moment, Brendon relaxes and rolls upright, leaning against Jon's shoulder and grinning widely at Spencer. Jon lets out his breath.

'"_Walker Wear,_"' Brendon says in a pleased tone, '_Awesome. _ You have all the best ideas, Spence. Can you _imagine_ what the fans would do if we gave away Jon Walker pyjamas with all our records? They'd wear them to all our shows, that's what, so we need to make skin-tight and see through – _lycra_ pyjamas – with Jon's face all over them – Jon, whaddya think?'

_I think I like you so much it hurts to think about,_ Jon thinks.

~

Jon's bent over his bass one evening before a show when he hears Spencer in the next room.

'... just ignore it,' Spencer's saying in a low voice.

'I – I know. But, but – '

'Brendon,' Spencer says warningly.

There's a silence. Jon wonders what they're talking about.

'I – yeah, I do. I _really_ do. But –' Brendon's voice is subdued. 'I just – I don't want to fuck things up. I don't want to fuck everything up, Spence.'

Jon frowns. Brendon sounds like he's trying not to start – crying, or something.

Spencer seems to be thinking the same thing as Jon because his voice is gentle when he says, 'Brendon ... it's not just going to go away.'

Brendon doesn't reply.

Jon's been listening for too long. He pushes the door open and walks in with an easy smile.

Brendon's eyes light up. 'Jon!' he says, and bounds through the room to meet him.

'Hey,' Jon replies, and staggers a bit as Brendon plasters himself along his side.

'There _is _such a thing as personal space, Brendon,' Spencer says across the room. His voice is light and teasing.

'Personal space is wasted space,' Brendon dismisses into Jon's hair. Jon laughs.

Spencer's watching them with a mildly exasperated expression but his face clears when Jon meets his eye.

'Pushover,' Spencer says in mock disgust, and Jon smiles.

~

It's becoming insufferable.

Jon's been with the band for two years and two world tours, through Ryan's father and Brent's court case. He's listened to Brendon sing Ryan's words out to crowds of hundreds and listened to crowds of thousands sing them right back. He's sat through petty, miserable rows with Ryan and Spencer and Brendon and spent every night for a week afterwards with his face in Ryan's neck and his feet behind Spencer's knees and his fingers twined tight in Brendon's. He's fallen asleep under a heap of boy and woken up with a heap of dressing gown, and –

None of it, _none of it _feels like this: walking in on Brendon eating Froot Loops out of the box at three o'clock in the morning wearing a tatty _Fall Out Boy_ T-shirt and with a stripy towel wrapped around his head, tapping vaguely on the table to the beat of something playing out of his iPod.

Jon hovers in the doorway, watching him scribble chords into a notebook with a sparkly gel pen before frowning and scratching them out, dropping the pen on the table and yawning behind his hand.

Jon starts into the room, turning up the lights up a little so he doesn't startle Brendon. He jumps anyway and twists in his chair, reaching up with one hand to knead his eyes and smearing something across his face as he does so. Jon walks further inside. 'Hey,' he says quietly, dropping into the chair opposite Brendon.

There's a smudge of green on Brendon's brow bone. 'You've got –' Jon gestures, and reaches across the table to brush his thumb through the ink. Brendon's eyes are soft and tired as he watches Jon without saying a word. Jon bites his lip and draws his hand away quickly before he can cup his hand around Brendon's jaw.

'You're up late,' he says instead. 'Brave man who dares Ryan Ross when he finds out his lead singer's not been getting his beauty sleep.'

Brendon looks affronted. 'I can totally kick Ryan's ass,' he says archly to the table, then smiles up at Jon. 'But I'd rather you did it for me.'

'Maybe both of us?' Jon asks, grinning back at him. 'I don't fancy our chances when Spencer finds out, though. Spencer comes with drumsticks.'

'Point,' Brendon muses. 'Drumsticks _and_ cymbals.' Spencer's been using his cymbals to pretty awesome effect recently whenever he feels Brendon's stayed in his dressing gown form for too long. 'Guess I'd better go to bed, then.'

Brendon tugs the wires out of his ears and stretches as he shoves the chair back. Jon's eyes flicker down as Brendon's T-shirt rides up, and he swallows. 'Uh huh,' he says, and directs his eyes to the floor.

When Brendon's feet don't go anywhere, Jon looks back up at him. He's got a tiny smile flickering around his mouth. 'Uh – '

'Night, Jon,' says Brendon over the top of him, and pads out of the room without looking back.

'Night,' Jon says to the empty room, bemused. He thinks something just happened, but he's not entirely sure what other than that it resulted in Brendon being a lot more enigmatic than Jon was used to. Enigmatic was more Ryan's thing. Enigmatic was more _Spencer_'s thing.

Jon stands up, shaking his head to clear it. And if he spends even more time than usual watching Brendon on stage the next night, well; he's pretty sure he's the only one that realises.

~

But the shows are getting more difficult by the week, by the fucking _day_, because in between the lights and the sweat and the music and the fans screaming their names; in between walking up the bass line and tripping down the keyboard; in between grinning wide at Spencer and knocking Ryan's shoulder with his own; in between _all_ of that, Brendon's singing love songs into the microphone and Jon doesn't want to hear the words.

He watches Brendon pace away from him on stage and swallows past the snag in his throat; watches Brendon lift his eyes to the sky and closes his own to the thought of kissing him; watches Brendon teach the girls to dance and feels his own hands bruise the ghost of Brendon's body; watches Brendon turn and fucking _glow_ at him from far across stage and _aches_ with the pain of smiling back and knowing that every single burning, hopeless dream he's ever had about Brendon is written in his eyes for thousands of people to see, and

_this is too fucking hard and he can't do it anymore. _

~

They're on the bus after a show, have been for a couple of hours. Brendon's melted off somewhere to leave Ryan and Spencer rolling their eyes at Jon as he paces. Jon doesn't care.

Another hour and Jon's flicking idly through TV channels, dropping the remote when Ryan snaps at him to fucking stop already, _Jesus. _He moves to the kitchen table and drums his fingers until Spencer starts tapping heavily syncopated rhythms on the window loud enough to drown out Jon's fingers; god, this is dumb. 'I'm going to bed,' he announces, and ignores Ryan and Spencer's twin sighs of relief as he stalks out of the room.

He doesn't actually go to bed, though, because the first thing he sees when he opens his curtain is Brendon curled on top of the covers. Jon gapes at him, something whirling in his chest. When Brendon asks, 'Jon?' sleepily, eyes closed, Jon spins to the opposite bunk and yanks back the curtain. Brendon says his name again, a bit louder, but Jon ignores him in favour of rifling through the loose T-shirts and CD covers and candy wrappers that seem to make up the majority of Brendon's bunk.

'Dude, what the fuck – ' Brendon begins, sounding a little bewildered, and Jon spins back to face him, a pair of baggy pyjama bottoms in hand. Brendon falls silent, eying Jon warily.

'Do you wear these?' Jon demands.

Brendon doesn't reply.

'Do you wear them?' Jon says louder, shaking them at Brendon. The feeling in his chest is getting stronger.

Brendon opens his mouth, then closes it again and nods briefly. 'Sure,' he says, 'Sometimes.' His voice is very sharp.

'Good,' says Jon, and finding a break in the waistband, rips them open.

Brendon's mouth drops.

Jon tosses the ruined pyjamas to the side. _Actually, Spencer, yes. I would quite like to be the pyjamas to his dressing gown_.

'Dude,' Brendon says, 'They were _your_ pyjamas.'

Jon blinks and looks down to where he's dropped them. 'Oh, for –'

They're the pyjamas Brendon had been wearing the first time he changed in front of him and Ryan. 'Right, well. Guess I won't be putting them up for sale, then.'

Brendon doesn't reply, just rolls out of the bunk to stand next to Jon. 'Something up?' he asks.

Jon looks at him. Brendon's eyes have got that same soft look they'd had a couple of nights ago, but they're edged with something – else. Jon can't decide what. Confusion, perhaps, or irritation.

Brendon's watching him silently. Jon should probably say something soon.

He clears his throat. This is – harder than he'd thought it would be.

'The thing is,' he begins, then stops.

He thinks Brendon's standing closer than he was a minute ago. Jon clears his throat again.

'Brendon,' he tries – Brendon's definitely getting closer – 'Brendon.'

They're barely inches apart. The look in Brendon's eyes is becoming more pronounced, and Jon breaks his gaze to look at the floor. The pyjamas are lying in a pathetic heap against the wall. Jon feels his lips quirking and runs his tongue over them.

'It's just. I don't – I can't – I don't know what you want, or. Or if you even want anything. Or if you even _know_ – well, I'm pretty sure you know, but ...'

He stops, darting a glance at Brendon through his eyelashes. He's biting his lip and looking at their entwined fingers, and when did that happen? Jon frowns.

Brendon looks up at him. His eyes are wide and – and maybe – maybe –

Jon takes a breath. 'The thing is. If you wanted pyjamas, you should have just asked. Me, I mean. You – you should have just asked me. Because, um. Because Spencer was kind of right, actually. When he said that –'

'Spencer's got a theory,' Brendon interrupts, pulling his hands out of Jon's and stepping away. Jon tries not to notice. 'He's got a theory about why I keep turning into a dressing gown.'

Jon lets out a breath. 'Um. Um, has he?'

'Yeah,' Brendon says, nodding. 'He has.'

Jon nods back at him. 'Right. Um, Br– '

' – he's got this theory that, okay, well it's obviously not just cinnamon. I'd be going lavender every time you had coffee or Ryan did the laundry or Spence washed his hair with that – that weird organic shampoo.'

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so Jon nods again. There's a very slight possibility he doesn't actually care about Spencer's theory right now.

'So it's like I suddenly got allergic to cinnamon, only I have to be tired and cuddling someone for anything to happen. And instead of like, throwing up, I turn into a dressing gown. Right? So something must have changed to make it start happening. Something that I did, or someone else did.'

Brendon stops. Any moment now, Jon's going to walk out and leave Brendon to it. Except, well, he's not, but he _could._

Jon flicks his eyes down to Brendon's. 'Um. Like?'

'Like – I don't know. Like move house. Or turn twenty-one. Or – or change my deodorant, or buy a new CD.'

Jon raises his eyebrows. 'A new CD.'

Brendon shrugs. 'Yeah. Anything. It doesn't really matter. Well, no. It does. It – Spencer thinks it's something someone else did. Spencer thinks ...'

Maybe Jon should just go and ask Spencer.

'He – he thinks someone started thinking about me differently.'

Brendon stops again. Jon wants to protest, but the whirling is back in his chest and he can't quite concentrate. He looks at his feet. Brendon coughs.

'Maybe they started wanting – different things. Or. Or feeling them.'

Jon's breath hitches. This is – he's not sure. 'That CD,' he hears himself say abruptly. 'The one you might have bought. Maybe if you liked it a whole lot, more than you thought you would. Maybe – maybe you'd play it on repeat for months. Maybe you wouldn't ever stop listening to it once you'd bought it.'

'Maybe,' says Brendon hesitantly. Jon forces his head up to look at him. Brendon's watching him with an uncertain expression. Jon smiles at him, he can't help it. Brendon looks surprised, then determined. 'Maybe,' he repeats, 'but only if I really fucking loved that CD.'

Jon blinks.

'Spencer thinks someone wants to be close to me,' Brendon's getting closer, 'Wants to, to wrap themselves up in me,' and he's running his hands up Jon's arms, 'Thinks they need comfort,' Jon can feel himself trembling, ' – need it from _me,' _ and Brendon's fingers are cool against his _burning _skin, and –

'Jon,' Brendon says clearly, and Jon's pulling him up and pressing their lips together and it's hard and rough and painful and _perfect _because Brendon's sinking his hands into Jon's hair and groaning low in his throat. He's leaning into Jon and they're stumbling back until Jon's back hits the bunk, and they're not moving except to press closer together, Jon's hands tight around Brendon's arms. Their eyes stay wide open as they kiss and Jon can't breathe, can't think clearly enough to close them so he keeps them locked on Brendon's, dark and wide.

Brendon nips at his lip, hard, and something sharp and static sparks in Jon's stomach. He shifts, slips his leg between both of Brendon's –

'Ow fucking ow,' he groans, releasing one of Brendon's arms to run his fingers across the back of his head where it's knocked against the wooden bunk. Brendon lowers his forehead to lean it against Jon's shoulder, giggling breathlessly, and Jon drops his hand from his head to shove at him lightly. (He pretends his other hand isn't pulling him in closer, tighter, because _dude._)

Brendon looks up at him, eyes dancing, and Jon doesn't even try to tame the beam that breaks across his face.

Brendon beams right back. He slips his fingers around to the back of Jon's head, soothing the tender skin and pressing his body closer to Jon's, and Jon finally notices the _yes, yes _that's floating dazedly through his thoughts.

Jon opens his mouth to croak something happy and meaningless, but Brendon stops him with a light kiss on his lips. _Anything, _ Jon thinks, _anything you want, _ but makes an unhappy sound in his throat anyway when Brendon won't let Jon kiss him back. Instead, he opens his mouth and whispers, 'Jon Walker, Jon Walker,' against his lips, voice hoarse. 'Jon Walker,' repeats Brendon, and Jon Walker can't stop himself from kissing the corner of that smile. 'Jon Walker,' smiles Brendon, 'I think I need some new pyjamas; do you know where I can get a pair?'

~


End file.
